The Side of Angels
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: When the British government approaches Sherlock to assist in dealing with an insidious threat, the stability he's built in the wake of Jim Moriarty's downfall is endangered - and he risks bring that threat too close to home. [Otherwise AU]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This an Otherwise AU story and will not make much sense if you haven't read "If It Were Otherwise". It's chronologically the second in the series (which now has 3 parts).

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><p>If John hadn't felt it himself – if he hadn't known Sherlock so well – he would have missed it, the tiny flash of surprise that never made it past the pleasant smile on his partner's face. He felt it only as the barest tensing of fingers as they left his, Sherlock pulling away to greet Irene warmly, brushing a kiss against each of her cheeks.<p>

He should have been used to it by now, but he doubted he'd ever stop marvelling at Sherlock's ability to mask his reactions. John had probably given them both away – but then again, it could be argued that Sherlock had known Irene was coming and simply hadn't bothered telling his partner.

He was saved from finding a cutting comment to make at the faint, gloating smirk that just touched Mycroft's eyes by Olivia barrelling into his legs, locking her arms around his knees and turning her bright grin his way. Any irritation he had over his partner being tricked vanished as he scooped his niece into his arms, dissolving her into shrieks of laughter as he tickled her. He stopped when Aaron, on Irene's hip, looked alarmed, and shifted Olivia to face him, her small cheeks flushed, her hazel eyes bright.

"Hello, lizard," he said, and she pressed an enthusiastic kiss against his cheek.

"'Lo, Uncle John," she replied, squirming to get more comfortable. "I made dinner!"

"Did you?" John asked.

"She was very helpful with the dessert, evidently," Mycroft said, and John couldn't resist a smirk. He wondered if Mycroft had ever cooked anything for himself – or if he'd even know where to start.

_Probably thinks tea just makes itself_, John thought. Sherlock, at least, could make his own tea or coffee – quite expertly, too – and John had to admit that his partner was rather proficient in the kitchen when he got it in his head to be.

"Well then," he told his niece, "I'm going to eat all of it."

"And everyone else?" Sherlock asked, arching a dark eyebrow.

"You can have some if you behave," John replied, grinning at the faintly irritated sigh his partner gave. He knew Sherlock would pick up on the warning there – John didn't want a row about Irene's unexpected presence at dinner. If Sherlock hadn't even known she was in London, then Mycroft had a reason for bringing her here, and for the deception.

He had a reason for everything he did, John knew.

Unfortunately, that reason was sometimes nothing more than annoying his baby brother.

If that was the case, he decided, he'd have some quiet words with his brother-in-law. Later. On his own.

Right now, he was determined to make the best of it – it wouldn't be difficult, given the enticing smells wafting from the direction of the kitchen. Sherlock could probably be counted to on to behave, at least through dinner. Not, John thought, repressing a wry smile, because he was there, but because Irene was. It occurred to him to be jealous of the way her presence held Sherlock in check – but if he was honest with himself, she was the reason he wasn't berating Mycroft, either.

That and his niece, who was wriggling out of his arms and snagging his hand, tugging him into the sprawling flat. John managed to get his jacket off in time to pitch it back to Sherlock, who caught it with an affronted glare, underlain by a warning to not dare leave him. John shrugged, flashing a smile over his shoulder.

He was putty in his niece's hands, and always had been.

If that knowledge had escaped Mycroft's notice, John would have eaten any hat he could get his hands on.

It could have been any family dinner – any family that managed to contain Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes anyway – the casual banter and good natured discussion at the table veiling whatever reason Mycroft (or Angela, John supposed) had for bringing them all there. There were the usual barbs between the brothers, but nothing that would force John to intervene, and Sherlock was attentive to David's quiet conversation and to Olivia's remarkably articulate toddler prattle.

He didn't even protest when Irene saddled him with Aaron so she could eat undisturbed, backing his chair up slightly to avoid baby hands in the food or getting hold of the silverware. Had it just been them, John would have taken a picture of the faintly uncomfortable, stoic look Sherlock wore while Aaron squirmed in his arms, pushing himself up on tiny legs to plant a palm smack on Sherlock's face.

The washing up Angela had roped Sherlock into would probably keep the brothers from clashing before the children went to bed; John nonetheless kept a sharp ear open while reading Olivia her requisite bedtime story and tucking her up with a kiss and a cuddle.

He was surprised they'd waited for him – if this was Sherlock's business, he didn't play much of a role, and certainly had no say in making decisions that weren't medical. Sherlock typically went out of his way to protect John from being involved, and the quick flash of grey eyes his way when he entered the living room and accepted a drink from Mycroft told him that his partner definitely wanted to keep it that way now.

_Well,_ he thought. _Nothing for it. I'm here, aren't I?_

"So, what's all this about then?" he asked. Sherlock and Mycroft met each other's gaze, both of them sighing softly, and John couldn't resist a grin, seeing a similar smile twitch on Irene's lips as she adjusted her hold on her sleeping son.

"Denied you all that dancing around, haven't I?" John asked, grin stretching when Sherlock gave him a slow, pointed look.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean," his partner drawled.

"Must be my mistake," John replied. "Of course neither of you would sidle around whatever it is, trading posh insults and snobbish snide comments until you finally wound your way to the point."

"I can say with full confidence that I've never 'sidled' anywhere in my life," Mycroft sniffed, disdain for the word dripping in his voice.

"Well, that's certainly true," Sherlock muttered against the rim of his glass.

"You on the other hand…" Mycroft murmured.

"Why bother when you've got people to do it for you?" Sherlock countered.

"Christ, I should have known you'd both find a way to do this anyhow," John sighed. "Mycroft, get to it. Why are we here?"

"Must there be some ulterior motive in having a pleasant family dinner?" Mycroft enquired, all feigned innocence that made John roll his eyes. That, he decided, had to be genetic, because Sherlock looked exactly the same when he tried it.

"Should I point out that, strictly speaking, Irene isn't family?" John asked.

"I would imagine my brother contends his top employees _are_ like family," Mycroft replied. John cast a look at Sherlock, who raised his eyebrows in a sort of facial shrug, giving a faint nod.

"Fine," John conceded, taking a seat next to his partner, resisting the urge to cover one of Sherlock's knees possessively. His actions would be read loud and clear by everyone – and, he noted, Angela was sitting across from her husband, not beside him. It struck John less as a statement of disagreement and more as strategy to divide and conquer.

"But," he said, "we all know that's bollocks–"

"Language," Sherlock murmured.

"He's three months old, and sleeping," Irene replied. "It's not going to make an impression."

"_If_ this were a nice family dinner, we'd both have known Irene was coming," John continued, pinning Mycroft with his best captain's glare. It seemed to slide right by. Pity. It worked so well on Sherlock.

"How so?"

"Because she would have told Sherlock if she was coming to London. Or, if not him, then me."

"You're very confident in her reactions," Mycroft commented.

"I am, aren't I? And you're bloody well doing it again. Mycroft. Why are we here?"

"Very well," Mycroft sighed, putting his drink aside, fingertips lingering against the rim of the glass. "If you insist."

"I think you'll find he's very good at that," Sherlock murmured. John resisted throwing a glare Sherlock's way, keeping his gaze fixed on Mycroft so as not to let his brother-in-law weasel his way out of the question.

"We have a… problem," Mycroft said, slowly.

"Only one?" Sherlock asked. "That must be a nice change of pace for you." This time, John did shoot him a warning glare, which was – unsurprisingly – ignored. He half wondered if the brothers kept a running tally of points and would declare a victor at the end of their lives.

He frankly wouldn't have put it past them.

"One that requires some… unconventional solutions."

"You mean hiring an international criminal organization to do your dirty work for you," Sherlock said, swirling his glass with what John knew was feigned indifference.

"I wouldn't have put it quite so bluntly," Mycroft snapped.

"No, you wouldn't," Sherlock murmured. John was about to interject again when Angela saved him by clearing her throat softly, and he felt a moment's envy that she could bring them both to heel – with faintly abashed expressions – so easily.

"Mycroft, you have a whole government at your disposal, and a rather large – if somewhat unwieldy – one. Including your wife, whom, I might add, has significant skills in dealing with problematic people."

"I never said this was a person," Mycroft pointed out.

"If it's you, it's political, and if it's political, it's a person. You don't need me to sort it out."

"Your firm, Sherlock. And, as a matter of fact, we do. This needs to be dealt with discreetly. Without any ties back to the government."

"_I_ tie back to the government," Sherlock said. "Through you."

"If that were true, we'd all be in prison," Mycroft replied.

"What do you want me to do, Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped. "Secure this person an expensive island property? Or commercial real estate in the City? Some gaudy modern mansion, perhaps?"

"I believe he already has all the real estate he requires," Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, this is serious."

"Yes, Mycroft, you always think it is."

John cast a glance at Angela, who raised an eyebrow in return but shifted slightly in her seat, the movement catching her husband's attention.

"He's a very prominent figure. Well connected. A lot of people owe him."

"Owe him what?"

"Favours," Mycroft said with a slight shrug. "Money. Loyalty. Information. Whatever he can command. Whatever he wants."

"How do you know I don't?"

"Because you're more careful than most," Mycroft said and John arched an eyebrow, wondering what it cost Sherlock's brother to admit that.

"As are you," Sherlock pointed out.

"Indeed. Unfortunately, my rather large and unwieldy government contains many people who aren't. Your – _enterprise_, on the other hand… There is something to be said about being in business for yourself, I suppose. Your people are remarkably adept at maintaining a healthy distance between your company and the law."

"Ah, the police," Sherlock said, sitting back against the couch cushions. "You should have said."

"I'm afraid not," Mycroft sighed. "_That_ would be easy, as they do fall under the purview of the government. Someone with similar reach and influence, but without those pesky dictates such as procedures and rules."

"Get to the point, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped. "I haven't got all evening."

"I rather think you do," his brother demurred, but shook his head and held up a hand when Sherlock drew a breath for a retort. "Yes, yes, all right. Sherlock, you must understand, this is a matter of extreme delicacy."

"It won't be a matter of anything without a _name_, Mycroft."

"Very well." Mycroft paused, pursing his lips. "Charles Augustus Magnussen."

It meant nothing to John, but the sharp reaction from his partner was evidence that it meant something to Sherlock. He glanced at Irene, seeing mild shock reflected on her features, and pressed his lips together against a question when she gave a small shake of her head.

"No," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock–"

"No, Mycroft!" Sherlock spat, pushing himself to his feet. "This isn't negotiable! How dare you? How dare you bring _my_ people here and put _my_ business at risk – _and_ John! You dare bring my personal life into _this_? Do you have _any_ idea the lengths to which I've gone– No. John, we're leaving."

"What?" John asked.

"Sherlock–" Mycroft tried again.

"You ambush me like this?" Sherlock snarled. "No, Mycroft! Come on, John. Now!"

Baffled, John managed to put his drink aside and stood, casting a questioning glance at Irene, whose expression told him she had no more answers than he did.

"We think he has access to–" Mycroft began.

"I don't want to know!" Sherlock said, long legs carrying him from the room, John hurrying to keep up, aware that Mycroft was behind them. "Don't try, Mycroft, because I am _not_ listening!"

"Surely you must see–"

"What I see is me being manipulated into putting my entire business – my entire _life_ – at risk – and you having the gall to drag John into it!"

"He does work for you," Mycroft pointed out, arching an eyebrow coolly.

"As a physician, not as a business associate," Sherlock snapped. "Whatever you've done to garner _his_ attention, keep me out of it! I am _not_ being pulled down with you, Mycroft!"

"The situation is not what you're thinking–"

"I'm not thinking anything because I'm not listening," Sherlock said, pulling the door open and shuffling a bewildered John out in front of him. "Good _night_, Mycroft." John heard the faint intake of breath behind him but Sherlock cut his brother off, snapping the door shut, one hand on John's back propelling him toward the lift.

"Sherlock, what–" John tried, the hand on his upper back pushing him relentlessly forward.

"Not here," Sherlock replied, voice as clipped as the curt shake of his head.

"But–"

"_Not_ _here_, John," his partner said, jostling them both into the lift, the smooth slide of the doors and the quiet gleam of polished wood at odds with John's confusion and the thunder in his partner's expression.

He waited until they got to the car, but even here he was hushed, Sherlock casting a warning glare at the dark panel of glass that made John start. Never in all the time he'd known his partner had Sherlock ever even hinted at doubting Gerald's loyalty.

"You have to tell me what's going on," John murmured, keeping his voice low, a tone that could sound like anything if it was picked up from the front of the car.

"When we get home," Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock–"

"When we get home, John," Sherlock repeated, voice still quiet, but underlain by cold iron.

"No one's going to hear us in here," John pointed out.

"_His_ is not a name spoken lightly," Sherlock replied. "And not one I'd like even accidentally overheard coming from my lips. When we're at home, John, and safe. Not before."


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock–"

"No."

John fought down a snarl, tired of that word, the way it shut down all conversation – shut down Sherlock. Grey eyes met his, briefly, flashing defiance, and the set of his partner's jaw told him Sherlock wasn't waiting to be coaxed, wasn't about to give in.

He put himself between Sherlock and the balcony, blocking the door and setting his weight the way the army had trained him to. Sherlock _could _get past John if he really wanted, but the doctor wasn't letting this go without a fight any more than his partner was.

They had access to the balcony through the bedroom as well as the living room, but John's position meant he could be out and blocking that more quickly than Sherlock could reach it. The flicker of expression told him Sherlock had just done the mental calculation and had reached the same conclusion – thunder followed the shock in his expression, and John took a deep, steadying breath.

Pissing Sherlock off was never high on his list of priorities, and three years had more than taught him that his partner had any number of tools in his emotional arsenal. Retaliation wasn't pretty, especially coming at him Sherlock Holmes style, but right now, John didn't care.

"You need to bloody well tell me what's going on!" he snapped, keeping himself ready – not tense, exactly, but aware. Alert. Watching Sherlock's expression like a hawk, reading it like the expert he had become.

The danger there wasn't directed at him – and John wouldn't have traded places with Mycroft over the next few days for anything – but it could be redirected.

_So be it_, he thought. He'd faced worse, even if it wasn't from Sherlock Holmes.

What he hadn't expected was for Sherlock to put the cigarette he'd been holding to his lips and light up in the living room.

"You know the rules!" John snapped as Sherlock inhaled sharply, a puff of smoke obscuring the air between them momentarily.

"And you know my rules!" Sherlock retorted. "This isn't anything to do with you, John!"

"You can't just–"

"No, _you_ cannot keep arguing with me about it, John! You _can't_ know about this!"

"You said you'd tell me!"

"I lied!" Sherlock snarled, the cigarette pressing between his lips again, the trail of ash teetering dangerously. John was aware that it would stain the pale carpet and also aware of how utterly pointless that was in the face of whatever it was Sherlock was refusing to tell him.

"You don't get to do that!" John snapped.

"I lie all the time, John! I'm a _criminal_ for god's sake! You bloody well know that!"

"Yes, yes, I do, and that's what's got us into this mess – whatever this messis!"

"And once again, you know my rules! This is my business, John! _I _decide what you need to know about it!"

"Usually! But Mycroft dragged me into this– no, shut up! Whether you like it or not and what would you like, Sherlock? For me to be caught unawares walking up the street by this Magnussen person?"

Sherlock hissed at him, making a sharp gesture with the hand that held his rapidly disintegrating cigarette, ash falling gently, like snow.

"What?" John demanded.

"It's best if you avoid his name," his partner muttered and John drew back a bit, surprise relaxing the tension. He caught himself the moment before Sherlock could take advantage of the situation, and the displeasure that flickered over his partner's features told him Sherlock would have, if only to make a point.

"So, what, he's Voldemort then?" John asked.

The look Sherlock gave him was long and slow, that unreadable, penetrating grey eyed stare that still made John feel like he was a five year old caught nicking sweets. He held himself against it, shifting even more into army mode, returning it with his best captain's glower, hoping like hell the jump of his pulse in his neck wasn't giving him away.

Sherlock broke first, eyes skittering away, and John exhaled slowly. He should be used to it by now, and he _knew_ that he was being taken apart by his partner's gaze because Sherlock had no idea what the hell John was talking about.

It didn't lessen the intensity, nor how little John liked being subjected to it without any more pleasurable intent behind it.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean," Sherlock muttered.

"I'm sure you don't," John agreed, and another glare was shot his way. "That doesn't mean you don't get to tell me what the bloody hell is going on."

John waited out the pause – three years had made him the world expert in how Sherlock communicated, but hadn't made his partner much better at dealing with messy personal issues.

"Would you believe that it would be better for you simply not to know?" Sherlock asked, not quite managing to meet John's eyes as he took a final drag on his cigarette. John kept quiet as his partner cast about for somewhere to extinguish it, and made no comment when Sherlock ground the butt into a coaster.

It would bother Sherlock more than him, and he wasn't about to give his partner any chance to derail the conversation again.

"I'd believe you think so, yeah," John agreed.

"You need to trust my judgment," Sherlock replied tersely.

"I do," John snapped. "But you need to trust mine. I'm happy to let you run about and do all the thieving you want," he ignored the slight flare of nostrils, the way Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "but I'm not going to fall to pieces just because you give me a little bit of information! As much as you don't like it – and I bloody well know you don't – Mycroft _did_ drag me into this, and what would you prefer? That this Magnussen catches me unawares – or worse, that I somehow compromise you because you kept me in the dark?"

It was a bit of a low blow and John knew it, read it in the faint wince on his partner's features. He'd learned a thing or two about emotional manipulation in the last three years, and Sherlock did – occasionally – deserve a taste of his own medicine.

John didn't like it much, but liked the alternative even less.

"He's a blackmailer."

"Sorry?" That hadn't even made it onto the mental list he'd drawn up in the car – assassin, drug lord, shadowy double agent, rogue secret agent, arms dealer, overly ambitious Interpol or Met detective, all of those had crossed his mind.

"A blackmailer," Sherlock repeated. "As in, he coerces payment from his victims in exchange for not revealing delicate information."

"I know what it means!" John shot back. "I just–" He cut himself off, realization dawning. "Is _that_ why Irene was there?"

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"Does she know him?"

"I should hope Irene's proven to have much better taste than that," Sherlock replied, a hint of iciness slipping into his voice that John ignored.

"Sherlock, for god's sake, she does the same damn thing! So do you, when it comes to it? Why are you so worried about someone who uses the same tactics you do?"

Sherlock's stare was a storm chasing across the sky, anger towed in the wake of shock, but John cut him off before he even had a chance to inhale.

"Yes! Yes you do, Sherlock! So does she! For god's sake, I'm not a complete idiot, you know! It's been three years and I'm your bloody physician! I _do_ know what you do!"

"Then you should know what we buy is _silence_, John!" Sherlock hissed.

"Isn't that what all blackmailers do, Sherlock?"

"No, what they _sell_ is silence! Silence at an ever increasing price, without any hope of respite because if you stop paying, that silence is broken. And in Magnussen's case, it isn't just broken, isn't just made public, but shouted at you from the front of every newspaper, from every news report, from every credible online source, because _that's_ what he does, John. He _owns_ the news, and it's not silence he wants, it's the story. _I_ want silence. _Irene_ wants silence. _That_ is our business – secrets, lies, stolen things. Magnussen wants noise, John, and the louder, the better."

Sherlock stopped abruptly, expression affronted, as if John had made him say too much. The doctor shook his head, giving himself a moment to collect his thoughts.

"What has he got on you?" he asked.

"You assume he has something?" Sherlock snapped.

"Does he?"

Sherlock's nostrils flared as he drew himself to his full height, and John shifted, making his stance even more military. The moment before his partner took the hint was taut, both of them silently braced for a stand off, but Sherlock relented, relaxing enough for John to ease his guard down.

"Not as far as I know."

"You don't know for sure?" John asked.

Sherlock sighed, eyes falling closed briefly.

"If we're going to have this miserable conversation, we could at least have it with whiskey," he muttered.

Good whiskey, of course, and an open pack of cigarettes on the coffee table between them, the ashtray rescued from its habitual place on the balcony. John wasn't thrilled with this deliberate flouting of the rules they'd agreed upon – Sherlock hadn't been inclined to smoke much inside even when the flat had been solely his – but the doctor knew there'd be no discussion outside. If Sherlock was going to talk, he was going to smoke.

"You don't have someone inside his organization," John said. It was half a question, and Sherlock shook his head, flicking ash into the tray, the acrid smell of nicotine hanging in the air.

"Why not?"

"Because as extensive as my network is, John, I cannot have people everywhere, and there are some risks that are not worth the potential reward."

"It seems to me this one would be," John retorted. "If he has _anything_ on you–"

"It could be disastrous, yes," Sherlock said. "Particularly given my link to the British government."

"Not to mention organized crime!"

"And that," Sherlock agreed with what John felt was far too casual a tone.

"What if he's using Mycroft to get to you?" John demanded.

"He's not," Sherlock assured him. "If he were, Mycroft would have told me and me alone."

"You're so sure about that?"

"About Mycroft not wanting to admit weakness in front of anyone? Yes. This may tangentially relate to him, John, but as I said, he has the whole of the British government at his disposal. Think of all the secrets. Secrets upon secrets, and far more interesting than any of mine."

"More interesting than an international crime syndicate?"

"I'm not a figure of public trust," Sherlock said with a slight shrug. "I sell extraordinarily expensive real estate to extraordinarily wealthy clients. Oh it would be a story if I were arrested, yes, but not that interesting of one. Not in the greater scheme of things."

"So, what? You're just going to sit back and let him do whatever it is he wants to do to Mycroft?"

"You think my brother is helpless?" Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow. "Asking me was a means of taking the work away from him. Simplifies his life while complicating mine."

"No, I don't buy it," John said, army stubbornness welling up. "You don't give in this easily, Sherlock. You went up against Jim Moriarty, so why not Magnussen?"

"Jim Moriarty was a threat to me," Sherlock said, eyes narrowing in a warning that John ignored. "And I have no idea where he's gone or why – not that I'm arguing his silence."

_That_, John thought, _is bullshit_. He'd never say it, mostly because Sherlock would continue to deny it, but Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock if he didn't know exactly where Moriarty was and what he was doing.

It had been three years, with no sign of him returning to spread his gleeful madness – John was sure Sherlock had something to do with that, and had often wondered, darkly, exactly how far someone would have to go to keep Jim Moriarty under control.

"Nor am I giving in," his partner commented, taking long drag on his cigarette. John pursed his lips, withholding an observation about this being more about Mycroft than Magnussen – that might be right, but Sherlock's reaction at his brother's flat proved it wasn't only that.

It made him want to push the issue, that stubborn streak inside of him flaring up again. If Magnussen was so dangerous, Sherlock should relish the chance to go after him. It was what he lived for, that treacherous, precipitous game, toying with the limits of the law, skirting its edges without ever being seen.

"It's my name in five foot high letters across New Scotland Yard," Sherlock said, as though reading his mind, "only everywhere else, too. I'm not a stupid man, John." He smiled slightly, obviously gratified by John's quiet snort. "I play where I can win."

"Who says you can't win against this Magnussen?" John asked.

"No one," Sherlock replied, absently grinding out his cigarette. "But at what cost?"

"So you'll just let him get away with whatever it is he's doing?"

"_I_ won't let him do anything," Sherlock snapped. "Mycroft _will_ take care of it. It's what he does." He paused, a distant scowl crossing his face. In some ways, Sherlock was an open book – or had become so, to John – and that particular distaste was reserved for Mycroft blindsiding him, rather than going through Gabriel.

Bad enough Irene had been invited without Sherlock's knowledge, John supposed. A two week holiday had dwindled to two days now, and it only surprised John that Mycroft hadn't pounced as soon as Gabriel and Sandra had left for New York.

Or maybe he hadn't known then. Maybe this had just come up, or been clear enough for him to make sense of it.

"As far as we know, he hasn't done anything," Sherlock pointed out, and John withheld a sigh. All the time in the world wouldn't get him used to the way Sherlock could that, answer the thoughts he was sure he hadn't even let show on his face. "If it's illegal, the police will be involved."

"That'll be messy. You know it will. Especially as he owns all those news outlets."

"Trial by tabloid is always messy, John. But better him than me, and if the government is involved, I don't want to be."

"So that's it, then? You're not even going to consider it?"

The thunder was back in his partner's face, muted but still there, a silent warning to drop it now while he was ahead.

"I did," Sherlock said curtly. "And I've made my decision, John. This is my business, and you have no role in how I choose to pursue it. No," he snapped when John opened his mouth to interject, "this isn't up for debate."

With a smooth movement, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet, glass clanking gently against the coaster when he set it down.

"You can stay out here and stew about it if you want, but I'm done with the subject, and I'm going to bed. Good night."

* * *

><p>"Get up."<p>

The flare of light hit him the moment before John's voice broke the silence, and Sherlock had to bite down on a groan, covering his eyes with a hand. The sudden glare abated to tolerable levels, but it did nothing for the sensation of being so abruptly disturbed – a muddled glance at the clock told him he'd been in bed for less than an hour.

As a doctor, Sherlock felt John should have known better than to wake him at such an inappropriate time in his sleep cycle.

Not to mention how much John harped on his sleeping habits, as if his need for less sleep could be altered by rational discussion.

"Get up."

The order came again, a sharp captain's command that left no room for disobeying – but Sherlock found some anyway, dragging a pillow over his head.

"Sherlock. Get up."

"John," Sherlock sighed, dislodging the pillow reluctantly, meeting his partner's set expression. The taut lines of muscles across John's shoulders and down his arms spoke to a stubborn refusal to be dismissed, and Sherlock hardly thought it was fair for John to ambush him shirtless.

He knew his own weaknesses, and John was at the very top of that list.

"We're not talking about this anymore," Sherlock said.

"Nope," John agreed, pulling the covers down; Sherlock reached instinctively for them, chill air brushing over his skin.

"I realize you–"

"I just agreed we're not talking about it," John interrupted. "Now get up."

"If you rang Mycroft–"

"Jesus, you're stubborn," John sighed, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Says the man who insists I sleep and then wakes me up all hours?"

"Bollocks, you weren't asleep and we both know it."

Sherlock withheld a small sigh; that was actually true. He rarely took refuge in sleep – or pretending to sleep – but it was often an effective weapon with John, when he needed one.

"Let's go," John said, and Sherlock swallowed a retort that they were unlikely to be going anywhere, half clad as they were. John, with remarkable insight, shucked his trousers and pants, padding naked into the bathroom, not even pausing to see if Sherlock would follow.

He did, of course. John's voice had brooked no argument, and he despised fighting with John whatever the reason. The doctor's irritation was understandable. So was the helplessness John would never admit to.

Here was a fight that the soldier in him could not win.

It irked Sherlock, too, but less so. He had always picked his battles carefully. It was the reason he was here, free and unencumbered in his own home, rather than living as a permanent, uncomfortable guest of the Crown.

"Take those off," John ordered, nodding once, briefly, at the silk pyjama bottoms Sherlock was still wearing. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but John only folded his arms over his chest – somehow, naked, John could still manage that disarming military authority.

He moved slowly, aware that it annoyed his partner, taking the precious seconds to try and work out what John wanted. It was moments like this – grating moments – when he couldn't read John nearly as well as he'd like. When his own proclivity for obfuscation was reflected back at him, leaving Sherlock scrambling to understand what was normally so clear.

He felt himself tensing for a fight – not a verbal one, but against giving up all dominance to John, who was so good at taking it when it suited him.

It galled him, but Sherlock wasn't sure he was in the mood for sex.

"In," John said curtly, nodding at the sauna. Sherlock bit his lip against an argument, the cold tile giving way to warm cedar against the soles of his feet, the heat slapping him like a shock, making him adjust a moment before he could breathe properly.

"Sit," John ordered.

"John–"

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"I'm not going to–" He cut himself off with a groan when surgeon's fingers dug into his trapezius muscles, thumbs pressing against his spine, running upward. The defensive resistance evaporated, leaving him immediately on rubbery legs as John's fingers worked into tense muscles.

"Now will you sit?" his partner asked, a hint of wry humour in his voice.

He did better than that, sprawling on his stomach on one of the generous benches, acutely aware of the extra body heat when John settled on his lower back. Sherlock pillowed his head on his arms, trying – unsuccessfully – to contain the groans and whimpers that slipped past his lips as John assailed knots and sensitive spots. There was no mercy here, and Sherlock knew better than to ask for it; the euphoric feeling that followed the discomfort was reward enough.

It was rare that John was so demanding in his massages, but Sherlock had learned, quickly enough, that the doctor was a genius at identifying when it was needed. The irritation of the evening – everything from Mycroft surprising him with Irene's presence to the unwanted reason behind the dinner to the argument he'd had with his partner – drained away under John's experienced hands.

By the time the doctor was done, Sherlock felt reduced to rubber – warm, satisfied, drifting somewhere in that hazy pink place between wakefulness and sleep.

They couldn't sleep here, not really, certainly not all night, but he trusted John to rouse them before it became dangerous.

The sound of his partner shifting, lying down on the bench just above him, was accompanied by the trail of fingertips up and down his spine, the touch drawing up goose bumps in its wake.

"I do, you know," John murmured.

"Do what?" Sherlock asked in reply, aware that his voice was deep, slurred, but hardly bothered to care.

"Trust you."

He hummed in reply, too sated to form the words to answer. It wouldn't be the last he heard about it, because Mycroft would be on his case and Irene would undoubtedly have something to say about it, but it was John who really mattered, and John who would let it go, trust his judgment, his ability to make the choices that kept them safe.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock awoke the next morning to an otherwise empty bed, but without the oppressive atmosphere that suggested John was still annoyed with him. Whatever irritation the doctor had felt had worked itself out with all of the knots in Sherlock's muscles; he barely managed to repress a groan as he pushed himself gingerly to standing. John's intense massages always left him feeling like putty the next day.

He fumbled for his pyjama bottoms and slipped a dressing gown over his shoulders, the cool silk smoothing away lingering twinges and aches. He didn't need to check to see the faint bruises dotting the length of his spine. John would feel slightly guilty about them – he always did, as if it were somehow his fault that Sherlock bruised so readily.

He padded into the kitchen, drawn by the aroma of coffee, and did manage to close his lips on a groan this time at the sight of defined muscles in his calves flexing as John pulled down two coffee mugs that were resting just outside of his comfortable reach. The suggestion of black briefs vanished just below the hem of one of Sherlock's shirts – if he'd had any doubt that his partner was no longer annoyed, it would have been banished immediately.

John only wore Sherlock's shirts to drive him mad, and never did so when he was in the least bit upset.

"'Morning," John said casually, casting a smile over his shoulder as if didn't have the faintest clue what he was doing. Sherlock forewent a greeting in return, crossing the kitchen in a stride and a half, pausing only long enough to scoop up the lube John had pointedly left on the small island.

He caught John's grunt in his mouth when he spun the doctor around, pinning him against the counter. Sherlock dug his fingers into dense thigh muscles, gripping hard and lifting, helped by his partner's hands planted on the counter's surface. He fumbled on the buttons of the shirt John was wearing, then abandoned that in favour of dispensing with the black briefs. They were kicked aside as surgeon's fingers hooked into the elastic waist of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms, sending the silk to puddle around his ankles.

"Christ," Sherlock managed, feeling John's grin against his lips when he was pulled into another hard kiss. The shirt and the lube weren't the only preparation John had done – Sherlock was dimly grateful, aware he wasn't going to last as long as he'd like as it was.

The smell of coffee and John surrounded him, accompanied by his partner's moans and his own harsh breathing as the edges of his vision darkened. Fingers tightened on the back of his neck, catching fine hairs as fingernails cut into the skin, and John came with a small, shivering gasp. Sherlock tilted his head back, biting his lower lip as John's lips pressed into his neck, the shock shuddering through him.

It took a moment before he could suck in a deep breath, euphoria coursing through his muscles, relaxing them even more than they had been the night before. The smell of John was even stronger now, and Sherlock wondered, vaguely, why he was bothering to resist the urge to lift his partner bodily, carry him to bed and stay there all day.

"You have work," John said when Sherlock murmured something about this appealing plan.

"I'm the boss," Sherlock pointed out.

"I have work, too."

"Your boss is on holiday. He won't know the difference."

"My patients will. And you know Irene will want to see you."

With a sigh, Sherlock conceded, nuzzling John's short hair, catching a whiff of shampoo.

"Besides, tomorrow's Saturday. I don't have any patients and, like you said, you're the boss. You can take the weekend off."

"I might have important clients," Sherlock sniffed.

"Nope," John replied as Sherlock trailed a hand down the outside of John's thigh, thumb turning light circles. "You'll have to tell them you're working from home, because we've got plans."

* * *

><p>In true fashion, Irene was not waiting for Sherlock when he arrived at the office, but swept it the moment before he'd had the chance to truly get settled. It might have been her stage training, but Sherlock suspected darkly that she did this on purpose. With everyone.<p>

As her employer, he should have been exempt to this sort of nonsense, but commenting on it would only bring a raised eyebrow and absolutely no contrition whatsoever.

Aaron was deposited with Tina, who took him with delight, and Sherlock swallowed the compulsion to point out this wasn't part of her duties. As with everything, it would have no effect on Irene, and could too easily be construed as a criticism of his assistant's work. Tina would do her job, three month old infant or no, and Sherlock had no cause to question that.

Coffee and tea were delivered efficiently, the faint click of his office door leaving them in silence. Irene claimed one the sofa for herself, settling in without hesitation. _How little things change_, he mused – her capacity to command any space as her own certainly hadn't, and was assured now as it had been the first time she'd strode into his office with the promise that he'd lose his business if he continued interfering with hers.

Whether the dominance came from her profession or vice versa, Sherlock could never quite tell.

"Well?" he asked, refusing to relinquish his place behind his desk, playing idly with a pen as he sipped his coffee.

"You assume I stayed?" Irene enquired, lifting an eyebrow.

"No," Sherlock replied, catching only the faint flicker of surprise that was expertly masked behind a neutral expression. "Making assumptions is a lazy form of guessing. I _know_ you stayed. I also know you did what I pay you significant sums of money to do."

A smile crossed her lips, nowhere as fleeting as the surprise had been.

"He was quite upset, you know."

"He's always upset when he doesn't get his way," Sherlock sighed, the pen between his fingers tapping gently against the polished surface of his desk.

"And we're speaking of Mycroft, are we?" Irene murmured, the glare Sherlock shot her sliding right by. "Besides," she continued, setting her tea cup aside with a smooth movement, "you've already declined to pursue it. Why does it matter now?"

"All information is valuable," Sherlock snapped. "Especially against my brother."

"There's little of that to go around as it is," Irene said. "Our man of the hour has something sensitive regarding members of the highest level of government."

"What?" Sherlock demanded, chair sliding backwards as he pushed himself to his feet. "_What_ does he have?"

Irene shrugged, unperturbed.

"I suspect if your brother knew that, he wouldn't be trying to hire you to find out."

"A vague accusation that someone has accessed secrets at the highest levels of the British government? _Which_ highest levels? Mycroft _is_ the highest levels!"

"Among others," Irene agreed. "And it's not just 'someone' accessing the information."

An irritated sigh gusted from Sherlock's lips.

"Does he think we're errand boys–"

"People," Irene murmured, earning a scowl but a cut nod.

"To go chasing after phantom wisps of information for him?"

"Sherlock," she said, leaning forward, forearms resting lightly on her knees. "This is what we do. Solve problems."

"So does MI5! And six! And a host of other shadowy organizations Mycroft relies on at a moment's notice! And don't you dare point out to me that they may have a vested interest in not seeing this pursued any further. So do I."

"Your interest is different," she replied. "This doesn't involve you. So far as we know."

"So far as we know," Sherlock muttered in agreement, stalking around his desk to throw his long frame onto the sofa across from her. "Therein lies the problem."

"I see none," Irene said smoothly. "You've said no. He can hardly go over your head."

"Oh yes he could."

"Your mother notwithstanding," Irene replied, an eyebrow twitching upward. "This is still your business."

"And my decision stands," he snapped. "Whatever Mycroft suspects, this is nothing to do with us." Her silence drew another glare. "Is that understood?"

"Of course," Irene said.

"Irene," he warned. "We are staying out of this. All of us."

"Dublin keeps me occupied, Sherlock. Not to mention having an infant son. You needn't worry about me." Her lips twitched at the derisive snort Sherlock didn't even bother trying to repress. Obedience had never been her strong suit – and he'd known that full well when he hired her.

It made her a valuable asset, but there was a time and a place where initiative needed to be curbed.

"See to it that I don't," he said.

* * *

><p>The hours inched by, underlain by a silence unremarked by anyone else – one Sherlock suspected only he could hear, which made its presence even more intolerable. It was an itch below the surface of his skin where he couldn't reach, or an elusive shadow of a sound vanishing when he cocked his head, trying to find it.<p>

He kept a snarl to himself, letting it out as short, sharp huff instead, surrounded by the silence of his office. His hand had reached for his mobile more than once of his own accord; each time, he snatched it back, determined not to lose another moment's focus.

A cigarette on the small, private balcony he'd commandeered years ago precisely for this purpose helped, but only until he had to pass by Gabriel's office again. The empty room offended him – it wasn't even dark, as would be right and proper, because Gabriel's assistant, Michael, was in and out, adding tasks Gabriel would see to next week, or fetching information for others who needed it.

Sherlock managed a curt reply at Michael's offer to help him with whatever he needed, and stalked into the desperate privacy of his own office, fingers plucking his phone from a jacket pocket. He cursed himself, intending to put it back and forget this nonsense, but an irritatingly stubborn streak kept him from doing so.

He was, as he'd told John that morning, the boss. Clients – both legitimate and otherwise – were always kept happy; better for them to owe him than the other way around, and he'd cultivated a reputation for reliability. There was always _someone_ to handle the necessary details even when he couldn't (or didn't want to), but there were clients who needed the right sort of attention. That of someone important, someone with influence.

It was simple enough to load those off onto Gabriel when the younger man was here, but an ocean away and on _holiday_ (the word made Sherlock sneer) severed him effectively from any responsibility.

Sherlock had, after all, _promised_.

He could handle another day – he _could_ – if it weren't for the unbalanced sensation creeping up along his spine. The one he could not entirely dispel, no matter how much he focused on his work, no matter the minutes he put aside for meditative breathing, no matter how many cigarettes he smoked.

It was physical, a craving. _Distraction_. Sherlock knew it for what it was, but naming it hardly mattered.

He needed, at very least, to talk this over with Gabriel. Someone he could trust with the specifics, the details – no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. Someone with an interest vested only in him. Not in his brother by way of association with Angela. Not someone who might, with the right provocation, be inclined to learn whatever it was that Magnussen didn't want them to know.

_You mean yourself?_ John's voice sounded in his head and Sherlock closed his eyes, taking a deep breath against the impotent frustration.

_Shut up_, he thought. He was well out of it. They all were, and curiosity had no place here, even for him.

He couldn't talk to Gabriel – no phone line would be secure enough for this topic of conversation, and it was a band-aid solution regardless. He knew himself well enough to recognize it, even if the knowledge was unwanted.

He needed _John_.

He needed to get out of this blasted building, track the doctor down in his office, cancel the rest of the day's appointments, and let John break him down utterly and thoroughly. He needed it like he'd have needed cocaine had he let himself slide into that addiction years ago. He felt it like a scream of fire along his nerves, that itch below the surface grown into a full-blown ache, and even the bite of his manicured fingernails against the palms of his hands did nothing to lessen the intensity.

Sherlock leaned against the closed door to his office, head tipped back, eyes screwed shut as he breathed slowly, waiting for the sensation to wane.

He needed it, and knew full well he couldn't have it, because seeking John out now would only sound alarm bells in his partner's mind – especially after the disastrous dinner last night – and there would be demands for explanations. What he wanted wouldn't be given up until John had wormed enough information out of him.

And if Sherlock waited – if he could _make_ himself wait – John would be happily obliging tonight without wondering why Sherlock was deliberately disrupting his own schedule.

With effort born of long practice, he found a calm centre, letting it expand until the sensation was bearable, if not gone altogether. Still, the edges of his mind buzzed, echoed by the tingling in the tips of his fingers. He paced the length of his office and back; it made little difference once he stopped moving.

He needed Gabriel to talk to or John to stop him talking altogether – but neither were available now.

There was someone, though.

In the whole of London – in the whole of the world – there was one person always at his beck and call, always where Sherlock expected him to be, always waiting to see him.

In the silence of his office, the faint, cold smile that touched his lips went unremarked.

"Hold all my calls," he said, stepping out, catching the flash of surprise across Tina's expression. "I have a meeting."

"Should I have Gerald bring the car?" she asked.

"No need," Sherlock replied, stepping into the lift as it opened smoothly for him. "I'm not going far."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I've been remiss in thanking AGirloftheSouth for her excellent betaing and her assistance, so: thank you!

* * *

><p>Too close too much space, all the words fleeing because they couldn't be contained, no, not by cold metal shaped into bars, but by thick walls, yes – but there were cracks, little cracks that sound could creep through, a soft susurrus seeping out, slipping away so that he could not reach it and hold on and keep it tight, locked up, secret, always secret, even here where it was all secrets, where <em>he<em> was the secret in a quiet place, all hidden away like the bits and pieces that weren't allowed out, no–

Little pinpricks of warm, solidness on his skin – _breathe_, yes yes, breathe, he could do that while nodding, and there were eyes in front of him, so close to his own but pale, like the sea, like ice in winter, like an empty sky but they weren't empty, with dark pupils and focus – _he_ was supposed to focus, yes, and breathe, could he do both at the same time?

_Sherlock_–

Of course Sherlock who else – there were others but only with Sherlock and now there weren't others, only Sherlock who had pale eyes that weren't empty, watching him closely, so carefully, and he must be doing something wrong because he hadn't remembered to breathe – but if he breathed, the small sounds would slip away, would become words, would be heard, would be turned against him and _that_, we couldn't have that, could we? Be careful, like treading on thin ice, wincing if the crack beneath your feet echoed across a space and sent someone running to plunge you in.

_Jim_.

He knew that name – it was him, beneath all the masks he'd donned when he was someone else, all the other identities that could be removed like coats until he was left only with the one that fit and it was still who he was, even here in the darkness that wasn't always dark–

But other people knew the name, too, whispers in the darkness, tiny threads leading back to him and he was careful to control them all, a spider at the centre of a web catching all the flies – but there were other spiders, quiet and deadly – loud and deadly? – and he wouldn't say – he _wouldn't_ – not even to Sherlock, because if the thoughts slipped out here, who would hold them? They weren't like flies, they could slip down the web, slip off, fall anywhere, into the wrong hands, into the wrong mouth…

No, they wouldn't.

Because he wouldn't say – he didn't want to, lips pressed tight, but the words were there, hovering; he swallowed against them but they were too light, like air, lighter than air, and Sherlock wanted them, but he'd tell, _he_ would, and then bits of the web would be broken, others creeping across it, finding its centre, finding _him–_

_shh shh_

It wasn't a voice – there was only one voice here, no two, because he had one and Sherlock had one, but it was Sherlock's he could hear, carrying on the air, and he watched the walls suspiciously, waiting to see it leak out but it didn't, all the tiny cracks were sealed and it held Sherlock's voice in place and the small sound of the nail file, smooth strokes pulling him back with sensation until he focused on two sets of fingers, one moving, one not, the movements in time with the other voice in the room, steady, soft, undemanding–

But there was a demand, there was, and he knew it, and Sherlock knew it, and there were things he would _not_ say, not to anyone, because words had to go somewhere, and better stay locked up in his head where there would be no damage, not to him, not to her–

Everything was steady, steady, no change, Sherlock's voice, Sherlock's hands, but no, he _would not_ tell about the girl, he would not, not even to Sherlock because there was too much space between them and suddenly there wasn't, eyes like ice so close again and nowhere to pull back but it was space enough for the words that had to stay locked up–

And they would because where else would they go? Locked in his mind, locked in Sherlock's. Sherlock could scoop them up because there were only two here, in the darkness that wasn't always dark, with the scent of soap and water, of cologne – two kinds, one weaker, faded, put on earlier, one given to him now, and he could smell it like fresh air, like open skies and _no_ the skies would take the words and spread them, but there were no skies here, just the same walls repeated above and below so Sherlock could collect everything and keep it safe and _yes_ he could and he _would_ because he'd promised.

But promises were words and words were broken and could get free and he wouldn't, he _would not_, not here, not anywhere and disappointment wasn't enough to coax him, pushing back against the guilt, avoiding saddened eyes and he knew it would all be taken away now, the soap, the razor, the suit, and he would be curled up in the corner alone in the darkness but he wouldn't anyway, he wouldn't, lips pressed together in a line, staring at the wall that was the floor beneath him, hands behind his back because that was where they went when Sherlock left–

But he wasn't alone, not yet, and nothing was taken away. The words hovered, tongue tasting them, wanting to turn them into real things, but he resisted, ignoring Sherlock's voice which had gone silent anyway, listening to nothing like the scrape of the razor, the brush of hot flannel. He could taste the disappointment too – Sherlock's, not his – but subtle, like a flavour he couldn't identify only really he could but it was all undercurrents and Sherlock kept his own voice quiet, kept his own words locked up where they couldn't get out and sneak away.

* * *

><p>Even when Sherlock was gone he didn't speak it because alone wasn't always, it could be a lie, invisible ears listening where he couldn't see them, so he kept the words locked up tight, like him, the only place they would be safe.<p>

Inside. Where it echoed, wouldn't stop, but couldn't escape, not if he didn't let it.

_Magnussen_.

* * *

><p>Sherlock sent Gerald home and walked – a habit he'd developed after his meetings with Jim, but one he made sure to vary occasionally. It never paid to assume no one was observing even the most innocuous of activities.<p>

The fresh air and the city streets helped him parse the conversation into something approaching coherence. There had been a time, years ago, when talking to Jim had made sense, at least on the surface. Even then, there had been undercurrents beneath the undercurrents, so many veiled layers that nothing could be taken at face value.

Now it wasn't deliberate – not on Jim's part. Sherlock never told more truth than necessary, but Jim was no longer playing. Following the twisted, knotted strands of conversation took time now. Separating fact from fiction was one thing – separating fact from madness was quite another.

And Jim had been uncharacteristically close-lipped. It wasn't like him – now – to be so unforthcoming, not with the promise of some reward, and Sherlock's presence often counted as reward enough.

Nor with the threat of punishment, or at least punishment as Jim saw it. Taking away the few luxuries he was granted, the luxuries Sherlock had deliberately associated with himself and with cooperation.

He hadn't done it today, because as stubborn as Jim had been, Sherlock recognized the distinction between obstinacy and fear.

However much he wanted to deny it, Magnussen's name had sparked much the same response in him, and there were traces of his own reaction to Mycroft's request in Jim's to his. Not entirely the same, but Sherlock had no reason for unpredictability (although it was certainly tempting with his brother).

But there had been some information. The fear itself was a definite clue. As to what, Sherlock would have been left grasping for any hints if Jim hadn't let slip about the girl.

_What girl?_

The question had gone unanswered; Jim had shut down as securely as the cell that held him, refusing to say more, normally agile voice gone silent. Sherlock hadn't let the frustration surface. Dealing with Jim had always required unflappable equanimity, now more so than ever. A change in tone, a slight push too hard, and he would flee the only way he could, into the safety of his mind.

_What girl?_ Sherlock asked himself now, eyes flickering over faces as they passed him by, assessing and discounting.

There were women he associated with Jim, but very few. Most of whom would be called women – the term "girl" was too familiar, too protective. He'd never known Jim to be protective about anyone but himself, and possibly Moran – although possessive might have been a better word there.

There was Molly Hooper, his contact at Bart's whom he had stolen from Jim. But she'd scarcely mattered to Jim at all, another pawn in his long reaching game, valuable only because of the access she provided. He doubted Jim would have even remembered her name, back when he could be relied upon to remember anyone's name aside from Sherlock's.

Beyond that… he came up empty every time.

He should leave it, he knew. He'd walked away from his brother's request for help with Magnussen, and walked right into this trap with Jim. _She_ (whoever she was) had to be associated with the news magnate – Jim had only mentioned her this one time, and only in connection with Magnussen.

Someone known to Magnussen then.

Or in danger of being so.

Like he was.

The jittery feeling crept up his neck again, and Sherlock resisted the impulse to turn, to scan the crowd for a face he'd never find anyway. Electronic eyes watched from all angles, and who knew who was watching behind them. His brother, certainly – or Mycroft could be, at a moment's notice.

But he wasn't the only one. A man who owned the media had to have eyes everywhere, and Sherlock felt them on him now, like insects, even if he was only imagining it. He'd done nothing to draw Magnussen's attention to him, but he knew full well that was meaningless. He was Mycroft's brother, he was worth his own fortune, he traded across the world with people worth even more than himself. All of those facts were true, the public face covering the private.

Sherlock had no illusions that a man like Magnussen had the resources to dig – although what he'd find would depend on Sherlock himself.

His tracks were covered. They always were. And they'd be covered again by the end of the weekend, current pathways cutting off into dead ends, new false trails leading nowhere productive.

He glanced at his watch, did a quick calculation. Gabriel and Sandra's return flight would leave in five hours, and would have them back by morning. Sherlock wondered if John would let him work – or, more precisely, if John would let him impose work on Gabriel. There were things they needed to do, the sooner the better, but getting to them without John knowing why would be tricky.

It always was.

It would be simpler, so much simpler, to tell John everything.

And so much more dangerous.

He wouldn't risk it. Not John. They'd already come too close too many times. There had been gaps he hadn't seen and John's safety had slipped through them.

He wasn't about to let it happen again.

He'd talk to Gabriel when he could, as soon as he could. There was nothing for it now – but knowing that didn't ease the impatient, edgy tension.

John could. Sherlock had been waiting all day for it. That perfect, agonizing distraction. When nothing else worked, John worked wonders.

Whomever Jim had spoken of could wait one night. Sherlock glanced at his watch again, reflexively, and picked up his pace for home.

* * *

><p>John was home when Sherlock arrived, immersed in the small, boring chores that Sherlock disdained – there was a reason he had money, and he could so easily pay for everything to be taken care of, but John took some sort of pride in doing it himself. It meant fewer strangers in the flat, something that John appreciated, and that Sherlock often had occasion to, as well.<p>

Like now.

He followed John around, pestering, needling, getting under his skin, nearly tasting the exasperation growing until John's patience snapped, dragging Sherlock down with it. The exquisite torture lasted ages, until Sherlock could feel nothing but the burn of pleasure down every nerve, see nothing but blackness, the bite of the cuffs on his wrists the only thing grounding him as his breath caught in his chest and his body screamed.

John's hard movements almost hurt, too much sensation after so much stimulation, but he wanted it, the near-pain keeping his mind from focusing on anything else as John's lips met his, clumsily, demanding, his muscles tensing as he came. Sherlock kissed back, swallowing John's low groan with one of his own as his partner collapsed, arms giving up his weight. He could feel the drumming of John's heart against his chest, pace matching his own, hot breath on his lips beginning to slow gradually.

A hand reached up, fumbling, and managed to undo the cuffs. Pins and needles danced up Sherlock's arms as his circulation returned to normal, heightening the rest of the euphoria. He kissed John again, more slowly this time.

"You have got to be bad for my health," John murmured in the small space between them.

"Mm," Sherlock hummed, stretching languidly, squirming when John pinched his hip. "It's supposedly very good for your cardiovascular system."

"You know what they say about too much of a good thing…" John said, but there was a smile playing along the edges of his lips, around his eyes.

"They're lying," Sherlock replied, aware that his voice was thick, drowsing.

"They are," John agreed, and Sherlock wished vaguely that he had the energy to run a bath, to doze in the heat and the steam, but the bed was exceedingly comfortable – even more so with John curled around him, bodies fitted together like puzzle pieces. Lips lingered on his forehead, soft and warm, and Sherlock hummed, letting himself surrender, contentedly, to a comfortable, inviting oblivion.


End file.
